Faerie
by Weeping Willow Factory
Summary: " sometimes we hate somebody only because they have something we hate in ourselves" Anonymous
1. Chapter 1

"Faerie"

Chapter One: Algebra days

You know it's weird. Every day we go through life and learn new things that change our view on others, the inside of a cave for instance, did you know in that dark damp underground you can actually stumble upon gems? And we ask ourselves who would risk it? Go into that disgusting pit of darkness to search for a scratched jewel? There might be someone who was willing enough to try but failed and then what? Then life would go on. We keep believing someone will try to defy the dead hero's attempt and leave the rest to fate…we keep breathing.

I learned something new today that scarred me. Life was droning on and suddenly the T.V lit up, the classroom lights dimmed, and we learned of Alzheimer's. The video was about an old woman who died, in my eyes, isolated and broken like cracked skin. Even with her whole family around her she didn't remember a single one of them. Not a hair or revealing freckle. Not a past time or a glance at her son's face. She died with a "who are you?" drifting on her lips. Alone.

So I'm writing in here, and it may seem silly but I am using this as my protective shield.

My still thoughts engraved here.

I'm calling it my memory book.

So I never forget what changed my life.

So I never die like that woman, because I'm terrified that will happen.

So I always remember … at least one person or two. I don't want to be lonelier than I already am. Instead I'll keep dreaming like a long line of my ancestors that someone will excavate the hollow pit inside me and maybe uncover a tiny diamond I didn't even know existed in me. Then they'll stay in my memories. Then I guess… I can be with a part of them, forever.

_September 30, 2010_

My name is Farris. Farris Godden. I'm 16. I have beautiful blonde hair, Clearwater blue eyes, and a dog; I'm popular with perfect grades and a family who loves me. Loves me. Loves me.

They do love me.

…sorry…I lied. That's what I wish I could remember.

My name is Farris…I'm 16.

Mom works all day… and cries all night. She thinks I can't hear but I can. She thinks she's not much to look at and jokes about her "lion" hair to make me laugh. I think she's the prettiest in the entire universe. Sure she has bags under her eyes and her thin shoulders look like they carry the weight of the world. But she has sparkly hazel eyes to back them up. When she laughs her age lines seem to disappear to me even though she worries they become more noticeable. When I was little she used to braid my hair as she hummed a song from one of my story books. She told me I was special. Someone was gonna want to be my best friend soon.

I have black eyes. She says dark brown. My father says black. He would know. I got them from him.

My father cut my hair when I was twelve and said it was getting uglier as it got longer. No more braids. The age lines on my mothers face became more pronounced.

A few days later I learned what a drunk man looks like from looking at him. He came home at night and told me I was nothing. I was useless unless I went to buy him more of the poison that made his eyes blacker than black. Darker than midnight.

Mom's eyes stopped sparkling so much.

Every night he came home and made either me or my mom scream. He reminded us why we were there in the first place.

We needed him.

Mom's work would barely keep us living. His salary was our sole benefactor. I wanted to work at the bakery near our house just a few miles up, the grocery store, for Satan even. I wanted him away from her. She wouldn't let me. She smiled and told me to go to school. Her eyes had stopped glittering altogether.

So I'm school.

Looking for something to hide an ugly blue/purple bruise on my arm. I close my eyes and make believe time has stopped. I'm actually not in the bathroom on the second floor of this building. The bell won't and cannot ring and I don't have exactly five minutes to cover up the nasty part of my skin that tags me outcast.

_Riiiinggggg._

A tiny creature's black eyes stare back at me from the sink-water stained glass. Strands of messy short black hair blend in. An ivory-skinned girl shrinking into the brick wall. She has no face. Only black shadows and an always pink nose from a cold that never goes away or crying when alone.

I swallow hard and run out the door.

I don't like that girl.

_Riiinggggg._

First period is a fishbowl. Our class is encased by solid glass. Students peep in on the parts not covered by posters when on break. Teenagers glub glub inside and talk word bubbles that float above the surface. I feel like swimming while the algebra teacher talks about polynomials and monomials.

Sitting in the back it's easy to be inspired by the vivid signs tacked on the slightly-crusting bulletin board. "Keep dreaming of your future" and "This could be you's" are all over smiling back at us. I listen to bits and pieces of the lesson. Mr. Cramer is nice. He gives out stickers on good papers and stutters.

He's the goldfish of the bowl.

Class is filled with the buzzing of the back row. The front row is filled with similar buzzing but not so loud. They like Mr. Goldfish too, so naturally they can handle being polite. A little.

Algebra is good. These numbers will actually help us in life, to be someone and help out others. I want to help my mom. I want to work and make those numbers add up to money so I won't…so we won't need HIM anymore. The clock sings a broken tune. Tick Tick Tock Tick Tick…

The bowl tilts slightly suddenly and three boys enter abruptly. They're late. I glance up and my vision becomes impaired by the hair falling in my face. Mr. Goldfish doesn't look too happy, but since class has only gone on about ten minutes he lets it pass. I recognize all of them from afar but not up close. One's name is Harold, another Sam or Steve, and the last one Rod, Rodrick? Dirty blonde, red brown and black heads that usually sit in one of the corner lunch tables. A cheerleader snickers and her friend wiggles her eyebrows. The two take their seats but the one named Rodrick stands glaring at a kid who just got here today from Portugal. The guy is sitting in the middle row far corner. Bad idea. He says something I can't hear and the kid flushes bright red.

Mr. Goldfish stutters a few words and points to the seat in front of me. Rodrick shifts his glare before reluctantly shuffling to where I sit. I pretend I don't notice and hide behind the remaining strands of hair protecting me .His backpack thuds and makes my tummy jump. He throws a notebook on the desk that has scribbles on the cover. I make out an L and a D. This is where I make a big mistake. Without thinking I look up and his eyes seem to have a little glare left in them as they set on me. In the irises the shadow girl stares back at me. She blinks. It becomes hard to breathe. I look away quickly and he sits down narrowly catching a crumpled half-sheet the dirty blond throws at him. Mr. Goldfish mimics my acting skills, acting as though he saw nothing and continues talking about our next assignment. My hands write down the homework without feeling the mechanical pencil's pulse.

He has hazel eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

Little thing

The puppet is strapped to her strings for the day and goes through the halls, attending her classes, feeling the chatter, feeling the untarnished pass by.

First period

Third period

The clocks fuse is shortening, it's about to explode and…..Briiingggggg!

Lunchtime.

Our lunchroom is something else. Normally you hear about lunchrooms that stink and serve poisonous liquid/solid waste products. Our school proudly struts about with welcoming sounds of kitchen clatter and a salad bar that people actually want to try. Whiter than the walls of an insane asylum, it docks paintings done by Art 1 on the sides of the lucky green tiled walls and a medium sized T.V that the football team crowds around to watch while they eat their various chips and burgers.

It's the people who make it seem different.

They are the masters of the puppets on their strings. Take one move towards their precious table. One step near a table they have claimed and they will make you believe the place is actually a butcher shop. They mangle your strings. Take away the painted dignity you have left and leave you in urgent need of stitches.

The sun is shining some of its rays through the clear windows despite the cloud forming inside. I look around quickly. Everyone is immersed in their own going rapid fire. I try to smile a little at the blue sky and almost convince myself I'm part of it all until someone rams into my back and I realize what an idiot I was. Staring out a window. The girl who ran into me looks back without a trace of pity in her freckled face. She looks familiar suddenly and then I remember.

We had presented "A Doll's House" in English class today. My group mumbled through the PowerPoint and then it was my turn to speak. I stuttered in front of all of them, just as bad as Mr. Goldfish. I spoke in front of a class of swollen eyes staring, boring straight into my brain. I felt the heat bubbling under my face as I struggled through the next slide.

They all seemed ready to criticize me. Every bit of my imperfection. Every bit of what I failed to hide in a clever façade like them. "Who is that girl again?" a sophomore whispered to her friend in one of the corner desks. A girl with light brown freckles drowsily glanced up from her nap to see who she was talking about.

They both looked at me.

Our school has a lunch patio outside. It's reserved for the elite only and a few who eat in silence apart from the elite. It's divided but united as one. It keeps up appearances with teachers. Makes them think we actually look down upon cliques. Smart, huh?

I don't belong to a clique. I don't belong to a group. I am a single nomad among caravans of giggling friends. There is a girl who talks to me at lunchtime. She has braces that click when she gets impatient and talks about horses while she chews on celery sticks.

Her name is Charlotte.

I'm scared to call her my friend because I don't know what she would think. Would she stop eating with me because she only really needed someone to talk to since her friends have different lunch times? Would she think I'm a desperate loner? Throw a celery stick in my face?

I don't know.

I do know she's not here today. She's been sick with the flu for two days. I heard a few girls talking about it yesterday. Probably her friends with different lunch schedules.

The leaves crunch crunch under my more than faded hand me down converse sneakers. The black turned dark gray color scatters the leaves as I walk and a fluffy cloud hovers above me reflecting the last of its white gentleness in me. I should be able to sit where I want.

I almost choke on my saliva. Did I really just think that? I did. My teeth grit and press together. The cloud winks and starts floating away.

I should. Rebellion builds up inside me. Where did it come from? What did that cloud do to me?

My feet walk faster steering me past the high-pitched cheerleaders, past the hockey team, past the few eating in silence, past me and Charlotte's spot. My strings tug on my skin and try to pull me back wondering if I'm out of my mind. I feel my bruise get lighter. A distant thought almost. I stop in front of a brick wall reaching just above my chest. No one sits there but it is a strange comfort zone. Just enough light to feel free but just enough shadow to feel a cool breeze. It's perfect.

I place my lunch bag up on it and hoist myself up precariously. I almost fall off the ledge but regain my balance. Oh my God. It's amazing. I can see a bird chirp in the distance and feel level to the others sitting on the opposite side atop the brick wall too, munching on their snacks. I feel remembered.

So this is where dreams happen. Up here. On top of the world itself. I feel weightless like HE can't reach me. Like his fists never made me cower into the corner of my bedroom. Like it was a bad nightmare that I have woken up from and this is my true place. Away from the demented thoughts he evokes in me and this person he made me into. I wish mom could sit up here with me. Maybe she would feel it too. This complete numbness of the mind.

Behind my closed eyelids I keep a stash of stories I can replay over and over in my mind and I go back to the time she used to baby-sit for a happy kid named Riley. She would take me too. I was five years old and swung on the swings with Riley as she smiled and pushed us higher and higher. Just as I sit up here now I felt that freedom. My fingers reached out as I tried to touch the deep yellowness of the sun and Riley laughed and laughed.

"Hey Buddha what do you think you're doing?"

The memory stops and vanishes as quickly as it came.

My eyes fly open and the dirty blond from Algebra is staring at me like I just sprouted wings.

"You meditating or some shit up there?" he says in a voice like sandpaper.

The dark blue bubble gum pops and his mean spittle gets on my face.

I try to reply but I can't seem to get any words out. Instead I sit up there mortified wondering what I did wrong.

I hear laughter in the distance. The sound of boys hollering and goofing around gets nearer and nearer. The dirty blond yells something at them and the laughter ceases at once. Silence pins me to the spot and I'm scared to look.

"Hey moron, that's our spot" a warning voice says harshly.

I turn around with a start and before I know it its Hazel eyes and I'm bound by his death glare. My skin heats up by degrees and feels deep in contrast with the swift breezy wind. I feel my hands get sweaty.

"Hey Rodrick what the hell is going on?" a voice yells.

A boy runs up slightly out of breath and Rodrick turns a little to look at him

"Nothing" he says and turns back to me "well?" he says impatiently.

His dark hair brings a shadow in his face and with a jolt I realize my heart had stopped beating for the few seconds he held my gaze.

What is this?

I gulp and feel the rest of his groups' eyes on me.

"I'm sorry I didn't know" I spoke up and it takes me a second to realize they barely heard me. In fact some of them actually lean in to hear better.

"Ok" he says stressing the word as he raises his eyebrow to give me a strange look. He throws his back bag on the ground.

The bird gives it one fleeting glance and rustles its wings and flies away.

I'm scared they will hurt me.

No, I'm more scared of him I realize. His eyes remind me of the ticking clock. Its about to explode.

"Well, if you could be so kind as to leave" he says in a sarcastic English tone and gets snickers from his friends. His lips twitch and I can tell he fights the urge to laugh.

"Promptly" the dirty blond mimics his sarcastic voice and sneers. I feel my head spinning as I clumsily jump off and reach for my bag. An invisible hand throws it at my face and I grip the bag with trembling fingers.

Just like you can't take your eyes off a horror film no matter how horrible it is. Just like you can't look away from a volcano erupting even though any moment you could be covered in lava.

I look up into Rodricks hostile eyes and they give me a cold once-over. He smirks in a way a Rottweiler might before it attacks.

"Go" he says in a quiet dark voice.

I walk fast down the patio, willing myself to never look back. Not now. Not ever.

My heart is a drum, its beat getting faster with each fearful memory of his glare.

_…._

The chant repeats itself over and over in my mind as I speed walk to the bathroom.

I lock the door to the stall and it smells dirty and rotten and I hold my breath as I sit on the closed toilet lid and focus on the sound of my heart.

"_Go"_

Focus on the heart, focus on the heart.

I feel something dripping down my chin. It slides out of the corner of my eye and leaves a nauseous feeling in my throat. An ice cube blocking it.

"_Hey moron, that's our spot"_

I involuntarily shudder and bury my head in my arms.

It shouldn't hurt this much but it does. How could it? It just does.

It will be the last time I go to that place again.


End file.
